Creepy Crawly

by Andrew Lowe

  ‘And nothing else.’

  He looked at her. ‘And nothing else.’

  ‘Can I get you some tea?’

  Danny Stoll shuffled into the kitchen. His movement was bowed, but he was compact and athletic, with short, tidy hair: peppering at the sides, dwindling on top. He was still tanned from the honeymoon, but the bronzing jarred with his monochrome disposition. He had The Stare—one of the worst Sawyer had ever seen—and he spoke in a whisper, as if nervous about eavesdroppers.

  ‘Really, Danny. Don’t worry about that.’ Maggie got up and guided him back to the wide armchair facing the TV. It was a short journey, but each step was a stumbling exploration. Danny took his mobile phone from a bookshelf, looked at the screen, and slipped it into the pocket of his grey fleece. He sat, and turned the chair to face Maggie and Sawyer on the sofa.

  Danny was still for a few seconds, then shook his head, waking to their presence. He cracked a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I’m still a bit all over the place. Please let me know if you want that cup of tea. It seems rude to let you just sit there—’

  ‘How did you meet Georgina, Danny? Quite an age difference.’ Sawyer took a photograph of the couple from a side table: clinking champagne glasses at a beach restaurant. Danny was a few pounds heavier, healthier, in the picture. Georgina, her hair garlanded, mugged to camera. She was exquisite, brazen, wallowing in the temporary opulence.

  Danny nodded and closed his eyes. It took him a few seconds to retrieve the information. ‘Castleton Rugby Club. About three years ago. I used to play. Christmas party. She was working for the caterers. We barely spent a day apart since. I have answered all of this before, you know.’

  ‘I understand that, and I’m sorry to make you go over it again. But I want to explore a few new ideas on what might have happened.’

  Danny shifted in his seat and slumped forward. ‘It feels like he’s killed me, too. Or like the old me has died and there’s been some kind of rebirth. Fucking stillbirth.’ He looked up, to Maggie. ‘Does this ever go away?’

  Maggie edged forward and took his hands. ‘Remember, Danny. We talked about it. Things will change. But it will take time.’

  Sawyer looked around the flat. It was a good size, and the sitting room window drew in the light from the low, wide fields at the back of the building. A decent starter place. Now a non-starter. ‘There’s a book I love, Danny. It’s called Slaughterhouse-Five. Sort of science fiction. By a guy called Kurt Vonnegut. He says that it’s painful to think of time as past, present and future. It’s better to see it as a landscape. Your life, your memories as ever-present scenery, rather than a journey through time with all those beginnings and endings.’ Danny turned his desolate eyes to Sawyer. ‘And so a person who has died, they’re just in a bad way at a particular point of the picture, but in great shape in lots of other moments.’ Sawyer stood, wedged in next to Danny on the chair, and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. ‘I lost someone, Danny. When I was little. That’s the way I deal with it, all these years later. I don’t think of them as part of the past. I see them as a part of me. Guiding me.’

  Danny dropped his head. His shoulders heaved as he sobbed. It sounded feral and unhinged. ‘I want to help. Really. I want to stop him doing it again. And that young lad… I want to help you stop him. But there’s nothing to tell.’ He looked up to Sawyer. ‘I can’t help you.’

  Sawyer pulled away and got to his feet. Maggie watched him, astonished. ‘Toilet?’

  She waved. ‘Through there. To the left.’

  Sawyer followed a short corridor round and locked himself in the bathroom. He took out Danny’s phone and navigated to the recent calls list. He pulled out his own phone and took a picture of the list of recent numbers, then exited the contacts application and pressed the screen lock button.

  As they pulled away, Sawyer could feel Maggie’s eyes on him. He indulged himself by not turning to challenge her.

  She broke the silence as they climbed the steep lane out of the village. ‘Quite a moment you had with your client in there.’

  He smiled. ‘I didn’t tell him anything I don’t believe. And I had to get close, to get his phone. Needed to check a few numbers. I sent his recent calls to Shepherd.’

  Maggie turned in the seat. ‘You pickpocketed his mobile?’

  Sawyer looked affronted. ‘I put it back. When we shook hands as we left.’

  She balked, speechless for a second. ‘How did you get into it?’

  ‘I saw him pick it up and put it into his pocket without locking it. Default auto lock is five minutes. Nobody changes it. I lifted the phone and kept it open by pressing the home button in my pocket.’

  ‘Jake, he could complain. That’s unethical.’

  ‘It’s victimless. For the greater good.’

  Shepherd was waiting for them at the station. He beckoned them into his office and closed the door.

  Sawyer held out his hands, palms up. ‘Anything?’

  Shepherd sat on the edge of his desk. ‘I cross-reffed Danny’s numbers through our HOLMES contact data. One was registered to… Paul Manning. A number of calls over the last few days, incoming from Paul. Turns out they were both at the same school, same time. Mid-eighties to early nineties. Hill Top Comprehensive in Chapel-en-le-Frith. Paul has a younger sister, Tracey. She was there, too. Left a couple of years after him.’

  ‘So, Paul’s son is murdered, then Danny’s wife. Paul contacts Danny. Paul tells me he “can’t help”. Danny uses the same phrase.’ He turned to Maggie. Dimple smile. ‘The lights are starting to come on. Let’s talk to Manning’s sister. DS Shepherd, come with me. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

  50

  Terry stepped into the visitor’s room and stood aside to make way for Dale Strickland, who swaggered to the table where Sawyer and Shepherd were seated. He dragged out the chair with teenage exasperation.

  ‘This your boyfriend?’ Strickland took off his glasses and swabbed the lenses with his shirt cuff. ‘Bet he keeps you warm at night. Plenty to hang on to.’

  Sawyer waited until he had replaced his glasses. ‘You used that one before, Dale. Lovely to see you again, though. This is Detective Sergeant Ed Shepherd.’

  Strickland sat down and, one by one, hauled his arms up onto the table. He nodded at Terry, who left and closed the door, then looked at Sawyer for the first time. ‘Have you found my boy yet?’

  ‘We’re working on it.’

  Strickland nodded. ‘You do know I’m done with this place, yeah? If you haven’t found him, why am I talking to you again?’

  Shepherd took out a folder and opened it. Sawyer put a hand on his arm and leaned forward. ‘Do you scare people, Dale? Do you see people wither in your presence?’

  ‘I’m not a boy scout. I don’t suffer fools.’

  Sawyer scoffed. ‘Stupid expression. Who does? Are you suffering us, Dale? Do you think we’re fools? Do you bend people to your will, Dale? Do you seek out the kind of people who submit easily? People who are easy to push around. Like the gang at school, where the lad who’s older and bigger than the others is the leader. Not because he’s special or smarter, but because he’s the strongest.’

  Strickland leaned forward, nose to nose with Sawyer. ‘Why? Am I scaring you? Is that it?’

  Sawyer didn’t budge. ‘You seem to me like the kind of man who might have made a few enemies. Maybe not through foul means. Lots of people in positions of power have to step on heads to get to the top. But there’s something else going on here, and I’m hoping you can help me with it.’

  ‘This is the prison call log,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’ve received two phone calls in the last few days. First one was short, second longer. After your son was taken. The calls themselves aren’t monitored, but we are interested in the callers.’

  Strickland sat back and glared at Shepherd. ‘Why?’

  ‘Two reasons. One. They’re both from call boxes.’

  ‘So?’

  Sawyer snorted. ‘Nobody uses call
boxes. Unless they want to hide their identity. It’s a big, flapping red flag.’

  ‘Two,’ said Shepherd. ‘They both came from call boxes close to the house of a man called Paul Manning. Do you know Paul, Dale?’

  ‘No.’

  Sawyer grinned. ‘He’s done his best. I’ll give him a seven out of ten for using call boxes, and two different ones. But he’s not Professor Moriarty. He used his mobile to contact your other mutual friend, Danny Stoll.’

  Strickland turned to Sawyer. His gaze was steady. ‘I don’t know any of these people. All I know is that my son has been kidnapped by somebody you had in custody.’

  ‘He wasn’t in custody,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was under police—’

  ‘Let’s focus.’ Sawyer pushed out his chair and sat back. ‘Why would someone want to murder Paul’s son, Danny’s wife and kidnap your boy? What is there between you? Who might this someone be? You do know these people, don’t you? You were speaking to Paul Manning on those calls.’

  ‘It was a business partner. None of your business.’

  Shepherd spoke up. ‘A business partner who uses call boxes. As opposed to his mobile or an office phone.’

  ‘You know what I think?’ Dale shot them both a rueful smile. ‘You ask if I scare people. I think you do this because you’re cowards. You can’t function in the real world. You have to hide behind your rank. Flash your little badge. Put the squeeze on. Threats and implications. You’re like professional bullies. Trouble is, bullies need victims. Must be frustrating for you, dealing with someone who refuses to be intimidated.’ He stood, turned, took his sweet time walking over to the door. Terry had it open before he got there. ‘You know what? They call the police “pigs”. But do you know what you two look like to me? Dogs. Barking up the wrong fucking tree. I don’t know any of the people you’ve mentioned, and I’d really appreciate it if you could leave me alone and get on with the job of finding my son.’

  51

  ‘It’ll take a day or two to get the lab reports.’

  Sally O’Callaghan handed Sawyer the evidence bag containing Luka Strickland’s cherry-red glasses.

  He held it up to the light. ‘A nine-year-old boy so unselfconscious about wearing glasses, he’s happy for them to be bright red.’

  Sally nodded. ‘Quite a pair of balls waiting to descend.’

  ‘How long before we know something?’

  ‘A day or two. But I’m not hopeful. From plastic and glass, best we can expect is a bit of DNA. The boy’s wouldn’t be helpful, and his captor isn’t in the database.’

  ‘Environmental?’

  She sighed. ‘I doubt it. Nothing definitive, anyway.’

  Sawyer crossed the room and walked straight into Shepherd’s office. He found Shepherd at his desk, typing.

  ‘Sawyer, one of these days, I’m going to be engaged in something private in here. Maybe even something intimate.’

  He took a seat. ‘Thanks for that image. You should learn to type properly. You’re like an old woman, pecking at the keys.’

  ‘That’s the weirdest insult I’ve ever had. Maybe you can teach me to touch type when all this is over.’

  ‘I’m going to take the glasses back to Eva Gregory, under duress.’

  Shepherd logged out of HOLMES and turned away from his screen. ‘For Beck?’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘I should have access. To the system.’

  ‘You have, by proxy.’

  ‘I shouldn’t need you to babysit. And we’re not manacled together. You need to get back on Keating’s Christmas card list. You won’t do that if you look like my sidekick.’

  Shepherd squinted at him. ‘Well, that was a brief honeymoon period.’

  Sawyer got up. ‘It’s your case. If the killer walks through that door now, it’s your collar. Not mine.’

  ‘Okay, then. DI Sawyer, get yourself to Eva Gregory’s house and give her the boy’s glasses. Sally’s got what she needs. Can’t hurt to see what this Beck fella comes up with.’

  ‘Is this you as Keating or you as yourself?’

  ‘Bit of both.’

  ‘I’m going to Beck’s show tonight, in Sheffield.’

  Shepherd stood. ‘Oh, and get up to Beck’s show. If he’s part of our investigation, I’d like to know a bit more about his act.’

  Sawyer smiled. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I’ll keep pushing the team for connections between Strickland, Manning and Danny Stoll.’

  Sawyer headed for the door.

  ‘Before you go, Detective Inspector. I need an answer. Something that’s been bugging me for a while.’

  He turned. ‘Sir.’

  ‘The patch of hair at the top of your head. Is that an affectation? Part of your mystique?’ He smiled, assuming flippancy.

  Sawyer raised his head and glared at him. ‘No mystique. No mystery. It’s poliosis. Genetic.’

  As he waited at Eva Gregory’s front door, Sawyer’s eyes were drawn to a stocky, shiny black Mercedes A-class, parked on the kerb a few doors along.

  Eva answered. She was dressed down: worn black jeans, grey T-shirt, hair brushed and untied. On seeing him, she drew in a sharp breath.

  ‘No news, I’m sorry. I’ve brought Luka’s glasses. Is that car—’

  ‘Mr Sawyer!’ Viktor Beck stepped out into the hall behind Eva. As ever, he was all-black and impeccable, with a fresh twist: a single strip of rainbow-dyed stubble, shaped from the centre of his bottom lip to the base of his chin. ‘Eva mentioned you were visiting. I recognise you from the coverage.’ He lunged forward and pushed his hand into Sawyer’s, forcing a brief handshake.

  Sawyer glanced at Eva; she kept her eyes down. He felt like a new boyfriend meeting an outgoing ex.

  He handed her a large padded envelope.

  Beck held up a hand. ‘Is that the boy’s glasses?’

  Sawyer nodded. ‘Luka’s glasses, yes.’

  ‘Could I ask, Mr Sawyer, how many other people have handled them since they arrived?’

  ‘Difficult to say. Nobody will have had direct skin contact.’

  Beck blew a sigh of relief. ‘Thank heavens. I find it so difficult to connect when there are multiple aurae.’

  Sawyer found Eva’s eyes. They were bruised from lack of sleep, but she had applied a little make-up. In aid of Beck’s visit, or his?

  She held his gaze for a split second too long. ‘Would you come in?’

  ‘No. I need to move. Mr Beck, how much time will you need with the glasses? Is there a standard time for aura acquisition?’

  Beck beamed. ‘You’re a sceptic. That’s unfortunate.’

  ‘Call me that if you like. I prefer to believe in—’

  ‘What your brain tells you? But your senses can be fooled. Correct? And what is Earthly science, but the collected postulations of a number of foolable brains? It saddens me, Mr Sawyer, that we trust one way of viewing the world, but not another.’

  Eva backed away into the hall, then turned and disappeared into the sitting room.

  Sawyer scowled at Beck. ‘We trust the scientific way, Mr Beck, because it can be tested, repeated, proven, disproven. In my job, hard evidence is our stock in trade. Good science catches bad people.’

  ‘You may be aware that I myself was tested recently. My abilities are no longer in question.’

  Sawyer scoffed. ‘That’s naive.’

  Beck shook his head. ‘You can’t have it both ways. You can’t say you need to see “evidence” of something, but then, when you see it, choose to reject it, based only on your preconceived notion of validity.’

  ‘Well, then. Let’s put you to the test away from the lab. Out in the big, bad world. See how you get on with tracking down an intelligent and motivated criminal who has so far left no forensic trail.’ He turned and headed off back down the path. ‘It’s not a competition, Mr Beck. If you can work me a miracle and somehow help us save a young boy’s life, then I’ll be more than happy to concede that you’re something special.’ He stopped and turned. ‘
In the meantime, I’m looking forward to the show tonight. I’ll be in the audience.’

  Sawyer stopped off at The Fishbar and took a salty, vinegary parcel of cod and chips up to his room. He opened the paper out on the bedside table and ate with a plastic knife and fork, reading The Gift of Fear.

  Rock climbers and long-distance swimmers will tell you it isn’t the mountain or the water that kills. It is panic.

  He understood panic as an excess of fear, a loss of control. But, like its root emotion, it was a cold concept. Elusive. A desperate squeeze to grip a wet bar of soap.

  He took out his iPad and immersed himself in a hectic ‘bullet hell’ shoot-’em-up, weaving a laser spitting battle craft through minuscule gaps in swarms of hostile missiles. Sawyer excelled at these games; he could read them peripherally, instinctively. Observers marvelled at his reflexes, at the unrelenting onslaught and the multitude of micro decisions. But he saw the myriad threats as equal. He was hardly dodging the bullets at all; it was more like he was manipulating the scene, finding order in the chaos.

  His phone buzzed on the table. He paused the game and took the call.

  ‘You ready?’ said Jensen. ‘I’m on my way there now. Be about an hour.’

  Sawyer switched the phone to speaker and restarted the game. ‘Yep. Have you had a look at Beck?’

  ‘His website is hilarious. And he has some live stuff on YouTube, but it’s carefully cultivated. Nothing Earth shattering. I’ve seen many like him.’

  In the game, Sawyer faced a cyborg behemoth which stomped into the playfield from offscreen. The creature peppered him with swirling geometries of glowing pellets. It waved its fist and summoned a flock of tumbling support craft. Sawyer jinked his ship through the pixel-wide alleys between the missiles and returned fire. Bleeps and blasts and crunches.

  ‘Are you playing a video game?’ said Jensen. ‘Nice to know I’ve got your full attention.’